


A Matter of Perspective

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Established Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Hotels, Lingerie, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2020-11-16 11:59:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20797445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: It's an affair, sure.But it's a damn good one.





	1. Chapter 1

The carpet was so soft that their footsteps could not be heard in the wide hotel room hallway. Not that they were hiding anything. Louis’s hand was wrapped possessively around Armand’s thin shoulders, a wide grin on his face as they walked.

Those that saw them pass by might think of two teammates, or at least long-time friends having a good time together. Perhaps they’d just met up after spending a few months in different cities, or had just gone out to dinner for a relatively quiet night out to catch up. And that this was the aftermath, not being able to resist to spend just a little bit more time together so that they could keep talking. Even if it meant cutting into the time that they should have spent sleeping.

They might be the sort that ordered a few bottles of fine wine to their rooms to share as the night went on. Or the kind of men who walked around each other wearing as little as possible before going to bed.

Had they looked closer, they’d have seen that Louis’s grin was all teeth. That Armand was blushing, not a pretty blush of a society lady, but the sort that turned your neck and cheeks bright red.

But then again, that might just be an indicator that there had been some teasing going on.

And yet.

The final press meeting was over, the conference they’d attended over the weekend was done. There was nothing left to do but to sleep and catch a late train back to Paris tomorrow.

Armand had spent the drive to the hotel on his tablet, updating his calendar and made notes to drop off his suits to the dry-cleaner as soon as he got home, composing short emails that could be put into drafts and sent in the morning.

But now the tablet and phone and everything was put away in his bag as Louis steered him towards the elevator that would lead them to a very fancy suite.

Armand’s hair was a fluffy cloud instead of being the tamed mess it had been in the morning, but Louis looked just as put together as if he was going to attend a photoshoot. No hair out of place, his suit perfectly tailored and even his nails were nicely manicured.

The paparazzi would never catch Louis looking anything but fresh-faced and groomed, while Armand would glower and stomp while wearing carefully calculated outfits, always with a hint of red.

They waited for the elevator, Louis’s arm still around Armand’s shoulders. His fingers traced the white collar, the edge of his ear.

The endless lists of things to do, things to take care of, things to check on so to make sure that they were being done properly: all that was gone from Armand’s mind. It had slid away as easily as dirt might be wiped off an altar.

Instead all that was replaced by the humming sound Louis was making, eyes bright in the golden light of the hallway. It was the look of a man who had spent a whole week on the hunt and was now so close to catching his prey that he could taste it.

Armand could almost smell the gunpowder in Louis’s hair, feel the exited beat of his pulse as Louis turned towards him as soon as the elevator doors opened and they stepped inside. He could see galloping horses in Louis’s eyes, hear the grass crushed under hooves and paws.

“We did well,” Louis said, breathing out as their bodies were moved up the building in a metal box. “You should have seen the look on some of their faces when you started talking.”

“Hm,” Armand said. “They should be used to my presence by now.”

“That might be true,” Louis said, as the doors opened when he swiped his card. “But they don’t know how to deal with you flirting with them one minute and verbally destroying someone else. Or the way you move sometimes-“

“Fools,” Armand said, following Louis, who had already stepped inside their suite. “Why do they think that a man might use only one tactic with absolutely everyone?”

“They got scared when you got into that argument with our old friend,” Louis said as the elevator doors closed. “I saw some of them actually jump in alarm.”

“Well,” Armand managed, watching Louis take off his jacket and fold it carefully over the back of a chair. “They prefer you, with your winks and boyish charm.”

“Boyish charm?” Louis asked, already grinning. His hands were on Armand’s hips, fingers pressing on flesh and bone.

“Indeed,” Armand said, kissing Louis’s neck softly enough that it would not leave bruises. “I think that the fact that you take pictures of my more outraged expressions and put cat stickers on them before sending the pictures to their assistants is something they find to be amusing.”

Not to mention the fact that Louis tended to use a commanding voice that made people’s knees want to bend, want to lower their heads in respect, want to use a tone so respectful that it bordered on worshipful. Louis moved like he knew exactly where and what and who he was in the world, steady and reliable and present.

They were a team.

Of course they were.

And Richelieu did enough leading on his own, having a staff and micromanaging politicians and leaders that came to him begging for his help. Not to forget the endless speeches and reports and notes spreadsheets the man wrote.

But in here, right now, he did not have to be in charge.

In here, he could obey orders.

There were hints of it in the outside world, of how readily he answered Louis’s questions, how Louis would physically steer him by the shoulders and grab his arm, the looks they shared and how Louis was always leaning against him, ready to hear what Armand had to say. All things that could be written off as a by-product of them working together for such a long time.

And when they’d started this, it had been a way to let off steam. Or that was how Richelieu thought of it.

Desperate kisses behind closed doors, crashing against each other and throwing their jackets off before getting down to business. A way to bind themselves together, strengthening their relationship by adding a lot of benefits to it. It was a stable thing, at least for now. Steady and secure.

Nothing much had changed, as Armand found himself unbuttoning his waistcoat, his jacket already in a heap on the floor. When he looked up, Louis was only in his underwear. They were simple, but the expensive kind that fit perfectly and was practical.

Nobody else would remember Armand Richelieu as anything but an ambitious politician with grey curls that had most likely made a deal with the devil in order to get so much work done. But Louis saw everything, the rage and the sleepless nights and the bitten cuticles and nails. The endless fear that soaked him through to the bone.

And the cat hair.

There was so much cat hair.

Louis’s hands dug into the crisp fabric of Armand’s shirt, pulling it free from his trousers. Armand’s breath was already shallow as Louis crushed his mouth against his and their bodies pressed together.

Armand made a small sound in the back of his throat as they pulled apart, eyes wild. His shirt dropped to the floor, revealing a flimsy cream camisole that felt like flower petals underneath Louis’s fingers.

“You prepared for this,” Louis said, unzipping Armand’s trousers with difficulty as Armand fiddled with the strap of his camisole.

“Hm,” Armand said, thinking of his equally unpractical underwear and the fact that he had indeed taken his medication at the right time so that he was in the sweet spot where they were in fact working and he could focus on other things than how to avoid pain. “I thought that since it was our last night here, I might as well-“

Louis shoved the trousers down to Armand’s ankles.

“Let me look at you, then,” Louis said, pushing Armand so that he fell back on the enormous bed. Armand took off his socks and shoes, throwing both to the floor with the expression of a man who had no plans on having sex while wearing any kind of footwear. This was not the sort of night where they would kiss until they were breathless and shove a hand down the other’s trousers before falling asleep in their dirty suits.

Louis took his time looking before Armand made an impatient sound and pulled him onto the bed, where they left bite marks and bruises on each other as they rolled around. It was only when Louis looked disheaveled, his hair all over the place and breath hitching that Armand went down on his knees.

They’d done this before.

They’d do it again.

Still, there was beauty in how Louis arched his back, how he gripped the sheets, how his face flushed afterwards.

There was even a certain kind of beauty in how Louis made his way to the absurdly large and luxurious bathroom in the nude to find tiny hand towels that they could use to clean themselves up, coming back with a triumphant smile as if he’d found a rare gem instead of towels.

Armand threw the dirty underwear he was wearing into the dirty laundry bag that lived in his suitcase after Louis had handed him a towel in an oddly businesslike manner. Then Armand cleaned himself up before putting on proper underwear and nightwear, aware of the amused smile on Louis’s face.

“What?” Armand asked, buttoning his silk shirt. “I don’t want to get cold and end up at the hospital.”

“I always forget that you embroider flowers on your collars,” Louis said, pulling the covers over his very naked body. It was a shame that Armand could no longer look at it, but gratifying to know that Louis would be asleep within five minutes.

In the morning there would be a wonderful breakfast downstairs, which Armand would only appreciate because their tea selection was very good and then they’d be on their way home. But it was nice to be able to breathe for a moment as Armand made himself more comfortable on the bed, listening to Louis giving orders in his sleep.

Then Armand stole the blankets from his half of the bed and carried them over to the settee in the other room, where he found his tablet and laptop. He made himself a cup of tea as quietly as possible, the travel-sized kettle making a humming sound as the water boiled.

And then he began working.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Elevator phobia, panic attacks, self harm.

Richelieu had always been more comfortable with order. Life was filled with chaos and maintaining a sense of order was often like herding cats. But he managed. God knew he managed.

Every speech, every essay, every document was the paper trail of his enormous influence and power, which he held onto so tightly that it frightened many of those that caught even a glimpse of it. Politicians and financers came and went, but Richelieu stayed in place, unmoving as a boulder.

His smile was terrifying, his suits always clean and tailored.

And there was always a trace of red somewhere on his person. Perhaps it was that his tie was the color of blood, or that the lining of his coat was a cheery scarlet. Reporters had once gotten a glimpse of crimson suspenders. Even his winter scarf was red.

Seeing him today, disappearing into the sleek elevator with Louis at his side, no one would have thought that anything out of the ordinary was about to happen.

After all, Armand Richelieu was not the kind of man who willingly showed anything he would have thought of as a weakness.

But there were some things that could not be avoided. Even if such things were very specific phobias.

Most of the time, Richelieu would take the stairs. It gave him room to think on the go, he claimed and was good for his health. Being such a busy man, people would nod understandingly when he talked about making time to think and plan.

Still, there were times where he’d just follow Louis into the elevator without thinking of what he was doing, too distracted by their discussion or the grin on Louis’s face.

Other times, he was challenging himself. Exposing himself to the thing that he feared so to prove to himself that going into the elevator and using it would not kill him or cause a horrific panic attack.

Today, he’d just followed Louis inside, mentally composing yet another e-mail to a colleague. He had put his hand in his pocket to fetch his phone when the elevator started with a jolt.

For a split second, Richelieu looked up to the roof of the elevator as if he was considering if it was soundly built. Then he glanced at Louis, who had pushed the button to get them to the right floor and humming an old song.

Right.

He’d just have to wait it out.

It would take just as much time to talk to Louis to convince him to let them both out as soon as possible.

This was going to be fine.

Just fine.

He’d been dying all his life, there was no way something as mundane as an elevator was going to be the end of him. He’d survived enough assassination attempts to be sure of that.

Richelieu clung to the rail, his whole body tense as the elevator moved up with the smoothness of metal and electricity and things that are not fraying ropes and chicken wire. Louis fixed his hair absently in the large mirror, brushing his curls back from his face and checking for traces of food in his beard.

And then the elevator stopped.

Above them was the sound of screeching metal and then some very suspicious clangs.

“Did someone else push the button?” Richelieu asked Louis, who was looking at the buttons with a frown on his face and then at the doors themselves.

“I don’t think so,” Louis said. “We are between floors.”

Then the lights went out, leaving only the small emergency LED glow.

Louis sniffed the air, looking thoughtful.

“There’s no smell of smoke,” he said happily. “That’s good.”

“Excellent,” Richelieu managed, his voice steady over the sound of his heart hammering in his chest. “We are not going to burn alive.”

“I’ll call emergency services,” Louis said, glancing at Richelieu’s pale face and the way his hands were clenching and unclenching. “We’ll be out of here in no time at all.”

He peered at the peeling sticker and dialed.

“It’s just such a damn small space,” Armand said bitterly, his breathing too shallow for his own liking. It came out as a series of harsh sounds, so unlike the charming and practiced things he liked to say. After all, he was a man that spent most of his waking hours either thinking of things to say, or things to write down. He could talk about taxes for hours on end and the history of France for decades if no one stopped him.

“You have reached emergency services,” the robotic voice on the phone informed them over the speaker. “At the moment, all lines are busy. You will be answered as soon as possible, according to where you are in the queue. You are number eighteen.”

Sweat dripped down Armand’s back and beaded on his brow.

“We will wait,” Louis told Armand. “If we are lucky, someone will realize that we are missing soon enough and come to our rescue.”

Fears piled up in Armand’s mind until they had become a mountain. His to-do lists were already long enough, his schedule for the day was packed with meetings and events. If they stayed here for over a half an hour, he’d have to spend weeks catching up with every single task.

That meant less than four hours of sleep a night.

Which would mess with his medications and focus.

Which would lead to breakdowns and panic attacks, which would then lead to hospital visits because someone would call an ambulance.

And then he’d have to ask Louis to go to his house to feed the cats-

“We might get stuck here overnight,” Richelieu managed, sliding to the floor. His back was against the cool metal of the elevator and he could see the blotchy flush on his neck and cheeks. The high-quality concealer that he’d smeared on to cover the bags underneath his eyes was smudged and mostly gone.

There was no use in trying to get his hair to obey him. It would only be a mess again in a few minutes.

And trying to wipe away the makeup with his sweaty hands would just draw attention to the makeup itself.

He curled in on himself, resting his sweaty hands on his thighs. Closing his eyes, he focused on breathing in slowly and then breathing out until his breathing was no longer as shaky as a deer being chased by a group of dedicated hunters.

“We might,” Louis admitted, sitting down on the floor as well. “Think about the things we might get up to.”

Armand kept breathing in and out, tears running down his face. His hands would not stop shaking, even when Louis tried to hold them for a while.

He put his hand on his heart, which was still beating far too fast.

“I’m trying to remember if I took all my medication,” Armand said, pressing his hand to his chest.

Louis’s expression changed from ‘just a difficult day at the office’ to ‘openly alarmed’.

Armand focused, remembering the physical sensation of opening his pill box in the morning. And then swallowing them with a glass of water. He’d put lotion on the scars on his calves and wrists, letting it dry as he’d shaved.

Had he not taken his medication, he reminded himself, he would be spiraling much worse by now. In the beginning, when the medication had started working, he’d not known what to do with the stability they afforded him. His manic episodes no longer climbed until he was producing work at a rate that frightened his colleagues because he did not stop working in order to sleep, eat or drink. And he did not push himself to work even harder because he knew that the drop was inevitable.

Instead he’d reached out to Louis, telling him of symptoms to watch out for, making sure that he knew when to discreetly ask Jussac do drive Armand home. He’d hired more people so they would take on much of the parts of his workload that he did not mind delegating. He put alerts on his phone to remind him to call Joseph regularly and to mail him good biscuits.

He tried his best to make sure that his environment and security net was good enough so that his chances of stability were better.

At least he was not alone in the elevator.

At least he knew that this was a panic attack and not a heart attack.

Or the beginning of a drop, leaving him unable to leave bed or talk because of depression. Those were fewer than they had been, just a few years ago. But the spirals were still exhausting and frightening, even if they were not as high or low as before.

Armand opened his eyes.

Louis had put his hand on Armand’s knee.

It was a casual touch and a welcome one.

“I did take all my medication,” he informed Louis and then watched as Louis’s shoulders dropped with relief.

Sweat dripped down Armand’s brow, making him feel dirty.

“You are number five in the queue,” the voice from Louis’s phone informed them.

Armand stopped rummaging around his pockets for his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow and the tears that were drying on his cheeks. The silver scars just a few inches above his wrists were barely visible to Louis, but they were still there. He looked at the hand on his knee. Then at Louis’s face.

Still, it was not as if Louis had not seen them before. They were a reminder of a coping mechanism he’d never truly been able to shake off. There were still nights and mornings where the temptation of an emotional release that came with scratching himself bloody or cutting was too much to resist.

Hidden behind layers of cloth or some costume makeup, they were usually only visible to Armand himself. And then only for a portion of the day.

“We should use our time wisely,” Louis said, inching closer to Armand. The smile on his face was an unusually sly one, as if he was planning something that could get them in a moderate amount of trouble.

“I could get so much work done if I write on my phone until the battery dies,” Armand said, picking up his phone with an odd glimmer of victory in his eyes. “That would be a good use of our time.”

Louis blinked.

“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “That is not was I was trying to say.”

“Because you were already thinking of the things you were going to say to the firefighters and the inevitable reporters that have tagged along hoping to get a voice-clip of you talking about how happy we both are about the rescue,” Richelieu supplied, already typing on his phone.

Louis looked at him as if he was contemplating taking the phone from Armand’s hand and wrestling him to the ground so that he’d forget work and spend the rest of their time kissing.

“Good afternoon,” a voice said suddenly from Louis’s phone. “What is your emergency?”

“We are stuck in an elevator that will not move up nor down,” Louis said. “We’ve been here for over half an hour.”

The voice on the phone appeared to consider this.

“We’ll send a team to get you out,” she told them. “But since they do have other priorities, it may take some time. Please try to stay calm and be patient while you wait.”

“How long are we talking about?” Louis asked, a commanding tone of voice slipping into the charming one he’d opted for.

“I cannot say,” the voice said. “I’ve alerted them of your situation. Thank you for using our services. Good day to you.”

Louis stared at his phone, which showed that the call had ended.

Then he put an arm around Armand’s shoulders, sighing. Armand barely looked up from his phone, typing with one hand and running his finger against the cool metal of the small cross he kept on a necklace that was usually hidden beneath his shirt.

“I’ll ask someone to get you some tea when we get out of this,” Louis said, knowing that Armand kept teabags in his pockets for emergencies. The man didn’t trust other people to buy good tea.

“Hm,” Armand said, typing on his phone.

“Wake me up when they show up,” Louis said, trying and failing to make himself comfortable on Armand’s shoulder. He closed his eyes anyway.

Armand looked up from his phone when Louis started snoring, muttering about horses and hounds. Louis did not sleep for any more than five minutes, as the doors were wrenched open by a pair of firefighters and EMTs. Behind them were a bunch of office workers and a worried Jussac.

Armand smoothed his shirt, hiding his cross away and pocketed his phone.

Louis just looked elated.

“I told you that they had gone missing,” they heard Jussac say as one of the office workers took Armand’s hands and pulled him up and out of the elevator.

Jussac handed him a steaming cup of tea from the red thermos he was carrying. Then he smiled at Louis, who was shaking hand with their rescuers.

Armand sipped his tea, glad that his hands weren’t shaking any more. Meanwhile, Louis was ordering everyone in sight to find Armand a comfortable sofa to sit on and to boil more water instead of listening to the man they’d planned to meet apologizing for not starting the search sooner.

Armand answered the EMTs questions, who found him a chair and took his pulse and offered him a blanket.

A few minutes later Armand found that Louis had grabbed him by the waist and was steering him towards a settee in a cramped staff room, where there were at least three people holding kettles. He settled down on the sofa with his second cup of tea, content to listen to Louis dealing with everyone who wanted to know what had happened.

Later on, there would be a call from the press and possibly a reporter or two would show up. But for now, Armand could just drink his tea in peace.


	3. Chapter 3

“He’s sleeping,” Louis hissed into the phone, having locked himself inside the hotel bathroom and was now sitting on the wooden bench with his long hair in a hair mask underneath a cap, wrapped in a decadent bathrobe. “He’s goddamn sleeping, Treville.”

It was around 2 o’ clock at night, the conference party had been officially over at around midnight. Then they had went back to the hotel room, where Richelieu had happily inspected the pictures his husband had sent of his cats that day. If he did see enough pictures of them, he became upset at the thought of them missing him or not enjoying their lives.

He’d done some sort of prep-work in outlining a bunch of emails that were to be written in the next few days, made notes in his calendar, spoke to Jussac over the phone and taken his heap of medication.

They had a delicious fuck, certainly. The sort that left clothes all over the floor and both of them a tangled heap on the mattress.

This was all routine behavior, for a conference like this.

What was not routine behavior was Richelieu rolling over to his side and wrapping himself up in the duvet, already muttering about silk in his sleep.

Louis had stared at him for a good three minutes, not believing his own eyes. Then he had decided that this would just be a small interlude, which should be used for an intensive beauty regiment as he was sure that Richelieu would wake up in around half an hour and sneak away to keep working, as he always did.

A nap would do him good.

But an hour had passed and Louis had managed to 1) Take a long shower 2) Enjoy a facial, pedicure and shave his legs 4) Finish the hotel’s armoire of fancy body lotion and various scrubs 5) Answer all his work-related emails in an attempt to wake Richelieu with the typing.

None of it had worked.

“Are you sure?” Treville asked, sounding bleary. “Did you finally manage to exhaust him?”

Louis took a few seconds to preen, considering it. Richelieu had collapsed on the bed afterwards, looking flushed and utterly out of it. As if had been a very successful conference and he’d been flying high as he was successfully charming those that needed to be charmed and doing more networking and actual working than three people combined, the kisses after they had locked the doors had been the scorching sort that should rightfully have set something on fire.

And the fact was that he was more adventurous in bed than Treville, even if he did have good stamina. He understood that he could give Richelieu the chance at being as submissive as he wanted in bed, praising him and demanding things from him as much as he liked. Seeing a man that was as powerful as Richelieu on his knees and half-shaking with passion and relief was always quite something, especially in the afterglow.

Louis stared at Richelieu, who was scolding the pillow for being a bad spy and threatening to have it exiled.

“I’ll try to bring him back home in once piece,” he told Treville. “And on time.”

Treville made a sound that Louis took as an affirmation that he’d heard what had been said.

“Did he take all of his medication?” Treville asked. “Because sometimes he starts thinking that when he’s on his way…up the hill, he might as well skip the meds and get to a higher peak.”

“I made sure to watch him,” Louis said, nodding.

“Good,” Treville said. “Take good care of him for me.”

Treville knew about their relationship and did not have a problem with it, seeing that it meant that it made Richelieu feel appreciated and cared for. And that he did not have to worry about him being alone and without friends on all those conferences and work trips.

Besides, he was good friends with Louis.

“I’ll do my best,” Louis said. “Hey, did he start taking some kind of sleep meds?”

“If he does, he hasn’t told me,” Treville said. “Just try to enjoy it. He might get odd in the morning about having wasted the night sleeping instead of working.”

“I’ll head to bed,” Louis said. “Better get in some sleep, just in case. Good night, Treville.”

“Good night,” Treville said, sounding as if he was wishing him good luck on a terrible quest.

Louis ignored his tone and swiped the red icon, put the phone away on the nightstand and took off his bathrobe.

Sleeping in clothes was for fools, especially when the sheets were so nice.

He pulled the duvet that Richelieu had abandoned over himself, happy to think that he’d at least have a few hours of sleep until Richelieu’s alarm woke them up at an ungodly hour and Richelieu himself would start checking his emails, the news and everything else to see what the world had been up to when he was away in dreamland.

He even pulled Richelieu closer so that he could steal some of his body warmth. And put the covers over him too, something that he should be praised for.

Louis kept still when Richelieu kneed him in the thigh twice, face so relaxed that there was no way that he was having a headache. A kick or two was fine, he’d just stay calm.

He pulled him even closer, so that they were spooning.

Ah, good.

He got in a whole minute and fifteen seconds of peace, Richelieu’s fingers moving as if he was writing on the sheets with a pen.

Louis closed his eyes when he felt Richelieu’s body relax properly, making a tiny sound at the back of his throat. Maybe he’d finished working in his sleep.

Then Richelieu elbowed him in the stomach and then in the neck as he began wrestling his pillow and then throwing it out of the bed with great force.

Louis narrowly stopped him from rolling off the bed, pushing him back so that he flopped onto his back. He crushed the urge to wrap Richelieu up in the covers like a burrito. Then he pulled him close again and turned off the lights, hoping that it would do the trick.

It did, once Richelieu had elbowed him five times and tried to headbutt him as well. Only then did he calm down a bit, meaning that he kept writing on the sheets and muttering in Latin.

Louis closed his eyes again, listening to Richelieu’s even breathing. And let himself fade away into his dreams.


End file.
